Uncle

It started with dreams.  Usually, I don’t remember mine, but during my first few nights in San Diego I couldn’t forget them: vivid, terrible, saddening.  But if my restless nights were uncomfortable, my irritable days were doubly so, complete with the kind of overreactions to anger and frustration that would earn me an honorary seat at the Soprano family table.  I recognized the long-forgotten pattern and rifled through old stores of anti-depressants well past their expiration date hoping for relief.  

Then came the noise.  They weren’t new, the sounds that disturbed my morning sleep, but I hadn’t been sleeping well enough in days before to be disturbed by them.  The early alarm that woke me from my first pleasant dream urged friends to join its morning greeting of the sun: engines roared, a large truck sounded its reverse, the telephone rang, and Son of Jiggy cranked up the bass line downstairs.  

A light dawned.

I thought I’d shaken my arch-nemesis in Arizona, but I should have known the wily Murphy would not be so easily eluded.  Until I learned his motive, the best I could hope for was to stay one step ahead of him.  

I bought earplugs.

I woke this morning from a sleep free of disturbing dreams.  I woke on my own schedule, sans outside insistence.  Rested and alert, I celebrated my victory over Murphy with a silent cheer.  My head bobbed right.  My body weaved left.  My neck screamed.

Now, if you would care to talk to me, please stand a bit to starboard, will you?  

And bring a treat for Murphy.